The Darling Dahlias and the Naked Ladies (34 page)

Bessie had seen similar copies many times before, at the funeral home and on her father’s desk at home. The plat was necessary, he had once told her, because sometimes people came in from out of town and needed to know where their father’s cousin or their mother’s great-aunt Clara were buried. But this one caught her eye because it was dated in the top corner: the day of Harold’s disappearance, a date she would never forget.

Curious now, she studied it. There was the road and the gate and the lane that meandered around to the back, where an old stone wall marked the graveyard’s farthest boundary. And in the far right corner of her father’s cemetery, there was a tiny penciled square and two letters.
HH.

Her heart beating fast against her ribs, Bessie stared at the sketch map, remembering that awful week, the week of Harold’s disappearance. Her father’s unaccustomed kindnesses, his tender gestures, his gruff words: “Some things don’t bear looking into, child.” Her breath caught in her throat, and she put her finger on the penciled square.
HH
. What had he done? What had her father
done
?

Outside the open window, a night bird called from the willow tree and the fragrance of the Angel’s Trumpet, its pale blossoms unfurled in the darkness, hung heavy on the air, like the stifling scent of funeral flowers.

Lizzy was always the first to arrive in the law office, but when she opened the door at her usual early hour the next morning, she found Mr. Moseley already at his desk, a steaming cup of coffee at his elbow, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. He glanced up when she stood in his doorway and his eyes lightened.

“New dress, Liz?”

It wasn’t. She had worn the same dress—a flared-skirt, rose-print silk crepe with lace ruffles at the V-neckline—several times before, but she only smiled and nodded. She had been looking forward with great excitement to telling him about the extraordinary events of the day before. But before she could open her mouth, he was speaking.

“Swell news, Liz!” He wore a broad smile and sounded extremely pleased with himself. “Looks like this tax case is going to go forward. It’s not wrapped up—there are still depositions to be taken, more evidence, that kind of thing. But it’s looking solid. And I’ve just worked a deal that takes our client off the hook.”

“The tax case?” she asked, not sure which client he was talking about. “The case you were working on in Montgomery?”

“Yep. The tax
evasion
case. Which—happily for our client—has turned into a deal between the local gendarmerie and the Feds.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. There were circles of perspiration around his armpits, and judging from the scatter of papers across the desk, Lizzy guessed that he had been working for several hours already. There was a half-smoked cigar in the ashtray and the office reeked of stale cigar smoke. She crossed to a window and opened it, letting in a cooler morning breeze.

“Will it result in an indictment, do you think?” she asked, hoping for a clue to whatever in the world Mr. Moseley was talking about.

“I sincerely hope so,” Mr. Moseley replied. “He is a slippery sonovabitch, and I hope they nail him. But in the last analysis, it’s up to the boys at Treasury. All I did was the witness work at this end. It was the special agents out of Chicago who deserve all the credit. They combed through four years’ worth of bank remittance sheets and deposit records, they tapped telephones, they raided bookie parlors and confiscated business records. My hat’s off to those guys, Liz. They did a helluva lot of work—dangerous work. They were actually risking their lives. And by damn, when this is over, they’re going to have Capone right where they want him. I know it.”

“Capone?” Lizzy blinked, startled.
“Al Capone?”

“You bet.” Mr. Moseley leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “You’re not to talk about this outside the office, Liz—not to Verna, not to anybody. I especially don’t want Charlie Dickens to get his paws on the story. There’s a strong local angle, but our client doesn’t want the exposure.”

“A local angle?” Lizzy asked urgently. The picture was beginning to emerge, like a partially finished puzzle. But she still lacked a few pieces. “What local angle? Which client?”

But Mr. Moseley was just getting warmed up. “The Feds have been working this case for over five years, Lizzy. They managed to get Capone’s brother Ralph, and they sent him to Leavenworth. They’ve put Jack and Sam Guzik and Frank Nitti behind bars. Louis Lipschultz is waiting trial.” Excitedly, he hit the desk with his fist. “Al Capone is next, by damn. And we’ve got the witness who’s going to nail him, right here in Darling, Liz! Our client!”

Lizzy sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. “Our client” was the last piece in the puzzle. “You’re talking about Miss Jamison,” she said. “Lorelei LaMotte.”

“Exactly. She’s a burlesque dancer from Chicago—” He stopped, frowning. “Hey. How did you know that? And how in hell did you know her stage name?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Lizzy waved her hand. “Go on.”

“Huh.” He regarded her, still frowning. “Well, I guess there’s no reason not to tell you the rest of it, as long as you keep it under your hat. Miss Jamison is a former associate—no, make that a former
girlfriend
of Al Capone. She had an inside track with that guy for at least two years. But they had a serious falling-out, and she decided to get even. She is now cooperating with the Feds to help them fill in his financial picture.” He chuckled drily. “That creep has never paid one penny of taxes. Never had a bank account, never signed a check, never let his name appear on any business records. And all the while the money has been coming in like Noah’s flood.” He shuffled the papers on his desk, fished one out and held it up. “Here’s an example. For years, Capone has owned a bookie joint in the Smoke Shop at what is now the Western Hotel, on Twenty-second Street in Cicero—although of course he’s not listed as the owner.”

The Western Hotel, Lizzie thought. That was the clue that had first alerted Verna to the connection between Miss Jamison and the Capone gang. And if Verna hadn’t made the connection, Frankie Diamond might have gotten away with murder.

“Just listen to this, Liz,” Mr. Moseley was going on. “In 1924 alone, that one joint raked in some three hundred thousand dollars in profits. And there are other joints like that one, all over Chicago and Cicero. Every penny of profit went into Capone’s pockets, of course,
after
it was thoroughly laundered. Tax-free income—or so he thinks. But he’s got another think coming, believe you me. He may be able to skip out on a murder charge, although he’s behind God-only-knows how many murders. But Treasury has got him dead to rights on tax evasion.”

Lizzy sat forward. “What is Miss Jamison’s role in all this? Why is she here in Darling?”

“She’s hiding out. You see, she is Treasury’s star witness. They’ve scratched together a lot of circumstantial evidence, but they had to find somebody on the inside to give them the lowdown. When she showed up in their office, mad as hell at Capone and offering to spill everything she knew about his finances, the T-boys knew they had a winner. In fact, they thought they had it all wrapped up. They were getting ready to move in when Capone somehow got wind that she was blowing the whistle on him. So he sent one of his men to have a little heart-to-heart with her. The talk turned ugly and the man—the Blade, he was called—ended up cutting Miss Lake’s face pretty badly. Miss Jamison shot him. Killed him.” He paused, cleared his throat, and looked at Lizzy, as if he expected her to be shocked.

She wasn’t, of course, since she already knew this part of the story. “Go on,” she said impatiently. “Go on, please.”

He gave her a questioning look. “Well, anyway,” he continued, “the shooting meant that the two of them, Miss Jamison and Miss Lake, had to get out of town fast. The Cicero police are in the pockets of the Capone syndicate, and Treasury couldn’t risk letting the boys in blue get their hands on Miss Jamison. Luckily, she had already made arrangements to come here. She needed a safe refuge while she and the Feds—and I—worked out the details of her testimony on the Capone tax evasion case. When it looked as if she would be charged with murder, Treasury asked me to negotiate some sort of deal with the Illinois authorities. And meanwhile, to make sure that she stayed safely under wraps.”

“She didn’t,” Lizzy said. “And she wasn’t.”

Mr. Moseley’s eyebrows went up. “Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t stay under wraps. And she wasn’t safe. She—”

“What?”
Mr. Moseley jumped out of his chair. He put both hands flat, palms down, on his desk, and leaned on them. “What did you say?”

“They found her,” Lizzy replied. “That is, Frankie Diamond found her.”

“Frankie Diamond?”
Mr. Moseley asked. “He didn’t hurt her, did he? Don’t tell me he managed to—”

“No, he didn’t—but he tried. He showed up day before yesterday at Verna’s door, looking for information about Lorelei LaMotte. He even had a photo of her, which was taken in front of the Western Hotel. That was a tip-off for Verna, because she had read in one of her crime magazines that the Western was Capone’s headquarters. She suspected that he was up to no good and called Miss Jamison’s place in Cicero. Mrs. O’Malley told her that Diamond was a friend of the Blade. So—”

“Mrs. O’Malley?” he interrupted, pulling his brows together in a frown. “Then you gave Verna—”

“Yes,” Lizzy said staunchly. “I gave Verna the name and phone number out of the file. And it’s a darn good thing I did, too,” she added. “Otherwise, Miss Jamison would likely be dead right now.”

“Dead?”
Mr. Moseley’s eyebrows flew up. “You mean, Frankie Diamond tried—”

“Exactly. To kill Miss Jamison.” Lizzy took a deep breath and pushed ahead. “Verna asked Bessie Bloodworth and me to shadow him, and there was an argument outside of Mann’s and Diamond started pushing me and Bessie Bloodworth around and Mr. Mann came out and threatened to tar and feather him because he suspected him of being a revenue agent. But Buddy—”

Mr. Moseley interrupted again. “Archie Mann suspects every stranger of being a revenue agent, Liz. He’s only right fifty percent of the time.”

Lizzy nodded and went on, hurrying to get it all out before she was interrupted again. “Buddy Norris rode up on his motorcycle and collared Diamond and put him on the train. But before he did that, Leona Ruth Adcock spilled the beans on where Miss Jamison was staying. So Diamond jumped off the train and came back to town and went to Miss Hamer’s house to try and shoot her through the kitchen window after it got dark. But Sally-Lou and DessaRae banged on pots and sang and Miss Hamer gave him the Rebel yell, which finished him off. Buddy Norris nabbed him and put him in jail, which is where he is right now.” Lizzy stopped, concerned that she might have mixed things up a bit or left out something important. “But of course,” she added, “Verna and Bessie and I had no idea about the tax case against Al Capone, or that Miss Jamison was a witness.”

“My god.” Mr. Moseley was staring at her. “You’re telling me that all this happened yesterday, while I was in Montgomery arranging Miss Jamison’s plea bargain? And that
you
were involved? You and the other . . . Dahlias?”

“Well, yes, I guess you’d have to say we were involved. You don’t have to worry, though. Miss Jamison is safe. Only she’s not a platinum blonde anymore. Beulah dyed her brown, and Miss Lake is wearing Beulah’s old red wig. Nobody will ever recognize either of them. And Frankie Diamond is in jail.”

Mr. Moseley was reaching for his jacket, thrusting his arms into it. “Diamond’s been booked? On what charge?”

“Attempted assault with a deadly weapon, attempted burglary, and trespassing. Oh, and disturbing the peace. And anything else that Deputy Norris was able to think of.”

Mr. Moseley was already on his way to the door. Liz got up and followed him.

“I’m going over to the jail, Liz. Telephone Sheriff Burns and tell him to meet me there, pronto.” He grabbed his hat from the coat tree and jammed it on his head. “I want to see that deputy, too. The kid deserves a medal. And there may be a reward, as well. Diamond is wanted on suspicion in a pair of murders last month in a Chicago whorehouse.”

“My goodness,” Lizzy breathed. “And to think that Bessie and Verna and Myra May and I were as close to him as—” Her breath caught.

In two strides, Mr. Moseley was standing in front of her. “I don’t know how you and your buddies do it, Liz,” he said, “but you’ve done it again.” And then, to Lizzy’s astonishment, he bent forward and kissed her, full and hard, on the mouth.

Then he turned and headed for the door again. “Call the sheriff,” he commanded over his shoulder. “Now!”